The Real Tim Tebow

Despite what they may believe, people do not love Tim Tebow because he's a Christian. They don't love him because he's a Gator, because he's a virgin, because he's a virgin Gator, or because, were he and your sister to go on a date, he'd walk her to the front door, tell her he had a wonderful time at the skating rink and gently kiss her on the cheek.

No, people love Tim Tebow because he sorta kinda pretty much sucks as an NFL quarterback. It's wickedly appealing to your average fan, in the if-this-shit-bag-can-do-it-maybe-I-can-too sort of way. If you remember watching Sedric Toney play guard for the Knicks or Cameron Drew trying to hit curveballs for the Houston Astros, consider Tebowmania the same phenomenon.

The problem with this thought process, however, is that Tebow — while certainly more Steve Pisarkiewicz than Steve Young — actually belongs in the NFL. He's big, he's fast, he's athletic, and were you and he to engage in, say, an arm-wrestle, odds are your fist would be slammed through the table. After which you would both kneel down and pray, your arm healing immediately and Tim walking off across the nearest pond to fetch your Daily Bread, but I digress.

Last night, while watching San Francisco beat Pittsburgh, 20-3, it occurred to be that, in the Lord's year of 2011, Tim Tebow isn't really (in the technical term) Tim Tebow.

Alex Smith is.

In the best season of his seven-year career, the 49ers quarterback has been repeatedly — and enthusiastically — praised as "smart," "adaptive," "instinctive," and "an excellent game manager." All of which are ear-friendly descriptions, and all of which mean the exact same thing: For a crap player, this guy hasn't fully embarrassed himself. In other words, that Alex Smith kid really can't throw or run, but the Niners sure have found ways around it!

All of this may, too, sound like an insult. But it isn't. Against the Steelers last night, Smith made several exceptional throws. And by several I mean two. One was a middle-of-the-field strike to Vernon Davis, and the other was a run-one-way-and-throw-the-other dazzler, also to Davis, an elite NFL tight end who could probably make Caleb Hanie look competent.

Otherwise, Smith delivered what Smith has all season, a series of dinks, dunks, and dils (a word I just invented — Definition: to throw a ball in the manner of former Vikings quarterback Steve Dils). Blessed with Davis, as well as receivers Michael Crabtree and Ted Ginn and the otherworldly running of Frank Gore (as well as a coveted position in the NFC West, the most dreadful division in the recent history of organized sports), Smith doesn't have to accomplish much to win. And that's important, because he's incapable of accomplishing much.

But, again, this is all an endorsement of Smithmania; of the ability to fake people into believing you've got the goods. Though a nation's longing eyes turn toward Tebow, they should be focused upon Smith, an average man doing average things for an excellent team. When Coach Jim Harbaugh tells Smith to roll out and throw a three-yard screen to Gore, he does so. When Harbaugh tells Smith to hit Crabtree five yards out on a slant, he does so, too. The whole thing is uncomplicated and precisely scripted, the updated version of NFL Quarterbacking for Dummies.

Understandably, Smith hasn't exactly embraced his status of Lukewarm Gatekeeper Until Someone Better Comes Along. Throughout the season, he has bristled at the notion that he is little more than a modern day Johnny Bravo (for you kiddies, Google Brady Bunch — season five, episode one), perfectly fitted into a No. 11 49ers uniform, but still slightly off-key. When asked, Smith has (usually politely) stopped the "You seem to manage things ..." questions in their tracks. The quarterback's defenders, meanwhile, mindlessly point to his efficient statistics — 16 touchdowns, five interceptions, and a whopping 2,752 passing yards, which places him, ahem, 17th in the league, directly in front of, eh, uh, mmm, Cleveland's Colt McCoy. In fact, no one has boosted Smith's cause more than Ron Jaworski, the Monday Night Football commentator and a man who, to be blunt, annoys me. Last night, Jaws (what a terrible nickname) had nothing but love for Smith, repeatedly complimenting his command of the offense, his depth touch, his mobility, and his recipe for blueberry muffins.

Being that we both watched the same exact game, I'm not 100-percent sure what Jaws was thinking.

Maybe the muffins are that good.

--Jeff Pearlman is a columnist for SI.com and the author of a fantastic new book (and holiday gift), Sweetness: The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton, available here.
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